Left Side, Strong Side
by kirby1991
Summary: Takes place during season one.


Left Side, Strong Side

I can feel my feet burning beneath me, like there are a thousand matches being lit under me as I run. There's a strange feeling in my chest. Something pounding, almost like a drum. I love drums. In fact, I've been playing them since I was about seven or so. Or, at least, I figure it was seven, because I was in the first grade and girls didn't have cooties anymore. (Well, most of them.)

What was I talking about? …Oh, right. The foot-burning. Anyway…it's been there ever since football practice earlier. I had to rip right out of my tux and change into my pads and jersey. Coach says you can only look snazzy for six hours. Then, it's time to drop the panzy stuff and "separate the boys from the men". What does that mean, anyway? Don't we all have the same stuff going on down there? I ask him and he always gives me the same answer: "Finn, if you're going to talk to me, at least put your pants back on." By that time, I usually forget the question.

I seem to just be running into nothing. Never mind the twenty other three-hundred-pound dudes running around the field, bashing their head into each other. I can easily step over them, or something. I'm pretty tall for my age, or at least that's what my doctor says. He worries so much that he gives me this stuff called Bio-Freeze. DO NOT get that stuff in your eyes! It'll burn for a week, and people will think you're crying. Crying on dudes is totally lame…unless you lose Call of Duty like five times in a row or something. Then it's okay.

They're all coming at me. For a minute, I forget why. Mom says I have healthy genes, and that I'm handsome, but I don't think that's it. Oh! Right…I have a football. This particular ball probably needs air. Or maybe I've been squeezing it too hard, I'm not sure. I'm not even supposed to have the damn thing, but none of my receivers are open. They're all pancaked somewhere on the grass.

I love the smell of that grass. You know, when it's a hot summer's day and you go outside and mow? …Yeah. I love that smell. I'm not allergic to anything, so I can take as many deep breaths as I want to and feel okay. It's like going out into the forest and soaking up the sounds of the crickets and the deer and stuff. They don't judge you for it, so that's cool.

As I'm running, I look over to the sidelines. There's Quinn, standing in her Cheerios uniform. Sometimes, she lets me touch her boobs. Under the shirt but over the bra. It's kind of a ripoff, 'cause they're really nice, but I guess I understand. She wants to chastate. Whatever that means. She smiles at me, but I'm too focused to even register it until I'm five yards down. Then I smile. That linebacker probably thought I was hitting on him. All the more reason to smash me like a bug once he gets a hold of me. Thankfully, it'll take a while because he was pretty big.

I keep going. My engine is charged. I feel like one of those Kentucky Derby horses that runs around with its tongue hanging out, its ribs sticking out a little. But its feet never stop moving. You can tell it's hurting, and that it wants to stop, but there's something bigger for it. The finish line. My finish like is a box with a giant yellow stake at the end of it. If we're lucky, the kicker will wale a ball right through it.

Speaking of our kicker…I can feel his eyes glued to me. He was a pretty small guy, and he tried to give our uniforms a revamp. I didn't know raccoon tales were an actual style, or that you could wear them with a jersey. I didn't, because I want to keep it for a project that I'm doing on Daniel Boone. He smiles at me, maybe a little too long, but I choose to ignore it. He's probably harmless at the end of the day. Maybe he just really loves seeing dudes run? I don't know his life.

All of the sudden, I feel this sharp pain in my back. It feels like I'm being stabbed with a cleat. Oh…I am. I've been down for a second, but I was so out of it that I didn't think about it until one of my teammates was standing on top of me. I guess I scored. That's pretty cool, 'cause I usually give it to someone else to score. But if I can run it in myself, all the better.

I can feel someone else staring at me, too, but I can't tell where it's coming from. It's weird, actually, because I can almost feel this invisible connection between us. You know, kind of like when you're fishing and you think the guy doesn't have a line on his pole but bam! Two seconds later, he's whipping it out of the water? Kind of like that, only I didn't want this person to be a fish. That'd be freaky. I should probably record some stuff on Syfy later. I'll write it down in the locker room.

Soon, the feeling is gone because the crowd is clearing out. The lights are dimming and the buzz that was there is staring to fade. The smell of the grass is even leaving. It only pops up when someone is trampling on it. My teammates are all running inside to shower. I'm alone again.

I stand up and brush off, carefully taking my helmet off. I won us the game. It feels good, but then it doesn't. It feels empty, almost. It's a hollow victory. I'll be newsworthy for a second but it won't mean crap if I can't do it again next week. I can easily be yesterday's news. But I'll soak up the feeling for now, because I deserve to. At least my feet stopped burning.


End file.
